


Picture Perfect

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Photography, Publicity, Romance, fluffy sweater, sexy dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-19 23:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17611466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: Castle didn't think 'laughingstock' was what Beckett would be. More...um...pin-up. And he'd have a set of the pictures for his very own. If he couldn't have the real thing – and she was as unobtainable as ever, which was just not fair – then at least he'd have some really good pictures.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted to Fanfiction.net

“Why are we doing this?” Castle whined.

“Because you” – he heard _you complete freaking idiot_ – “said that you needed more PR for the latest Nikki Heat book and somehow you dragged me into it.”

“I didn’t have to do much dragging,” Castle smirked.  “I just had to...um... _mention_ the excellent opportunity to Montgomery” –

“Shut up or I’ll shoot you.  You had _no right_ to suborn Montgomery.”

“No suborning required.  He was delighted to help.”

Beckett muttered something blackly under her breath and stared round with a nuclear-level glare that should have incinerated every atom within a thousand-yard radius. 

“Anyway, this was your fault and when we finish you are going to owe me big time.  I never ever _ever_ wanted to be in any freaking photoshoot and I’ll be the laughingstock of the precinct for months.”

Castle didn’t think _laughingstock_ was what Beckett would be.  More...um... _pin-up_.  Even – or possibly especially – when furious she was gorgeous, and he knew she’d done a bit of modelling previously, so... really, he couldn’t lose here.  _And_ he’d have a set of the pictures for his very own.  If he couldn’t have the real thing – and she was as unobtainable as ever, which was just not fair – then at least he’d have some really good pictures.  Inspiration.

On the other hand, and also the reason why he was whining, he didn’t like the assessing looks he was being given.  He felt judged, and found ever so slightly wanting.

“Okay,” the photographer said.  “Let’s get this set up.  Now, Mr Castle” –

“Call me Rick.”

“Sure.  I’m Andy.  Your PR agent said that this was to add interest to the Nikki Heat book – I loved it, by the way” – Castle abruptly became very much happier – “by showing Nikki and Rook in various settings.  Helps your readers to visualise them.”  Castle started to pout.  “But this’ll be really simple.  The description in the books was so clear, that it’s really just a reminder.  More about the settings than the characters.”  The pout disappeared.

“Hang on a minute,” Beckett snapped.  “Various settings?  Exactly _what_ settings?”

“Settings from the books.”

“Like what?”

“The precinct, Nikki at home, that sort of thing.”

Beckett made a face.  “Seriously?”

“All your outfits are in that room.”

“Don’t even think about it,” she rapped, without even looking.  Castle’s feet stopped sneaking in that direction.

“Yours are in that room,” Andy said to Castle.  It was on the opposite side of the studio.

“Outfits?”

“Yeah.  I mean, what you’re wearing is fine, but only for one set.  You don’t wear the same clothes every day, so we need a few outfits.  Rook’s a stylish guy, according to you.”

“He is.”

“So we needed a few stylish outfits.”

“Are you saying my outfits aren’t appropriate?” Beckett interrupted.

“No, but same thing.  You’ve got one outfit on.”  Andy looked her up and down.  “It’s good, but it’s just one thing.  Don’t you get changed when you get home, relax a bit?”

“You never go home,” Castle muttered. 

Beckett glared.  “Yes,” she said defiantly and untruthfully.  _If_ she had gone home _then_ she would have gotten changed.

“Okay, so Nikki would too.  Go have a look at the outfits, and then we’ll start to play around with the set.”

“You’re not coming,” Beckett snipped at Castle.  “Go look at your own dressing up box.”

“Oooohhhh.  I love playing dress-up.  Of course, I usually play it in reverse – OW!”

Beckett stalked off, leaving Castle with an exceedingly painful ear.  Andy grinned at him. 

“Feisty, isn’t she?”

“Wait till you see what she does if she doesn’t like the outfits _you_ chose.  She carries a gun, you know.”

Andy actually went a little pale, which Castle found exceedingly satisfying.

Beckett shut the door of the changing room very firmly behind her and considered the rail on which a variety of outfits were hanging.  Not that she would admit it to Castle (or indeed anyone else), but she liked nice clothes and on her rare days off she liked both wearing them and seeking them out: haunting the discount designer stores with enthusiasm.  Of course, Castle might well have spotted her designer collection, since he seemed to spot absolutely everything about her including all the things she’d much rather he didn’t spot, but he’d never guess where she bought it and he certainly wouldn’t get to help her choose it – what?  That was an insane thought.  Of course he wouldn’t.  Why on earth did she need to tell herself that?

Anyway, here was a rack of nice looking clothes, just begging her to play with them.  She began to get acquainted.  Mmmm.  Trench coat, beige.  Perfect for detectives.  Dark jacket and wide pants...seriously badass.  Huge roll-neck sweater – ooohhhhh, and it was so soft – oh, yes.  If she were ever home, she’d snuggle into this with a book and ice cream and it would be cosy and wonderful.  Another long coat: darker and heavier.  Black crop top...that’d make Castle swallow his tongue – what?  No no no.  He wouldn’t be seeing it.  Little black dress – that’d be a bit low cut... he’d die on the spot.

Oh.  Oh, oh, _ohhhhhh_.  White, floaty, summer dress.  Ethereal and sexy at once.  Ohhhhhhhh.  _Mine!_ , her head and heart pleaded in unison.  It might fit in her purse if she squished it right down to tiny.  Surely nobody would notice it missing?  Reluctantly, she remembered that she was a cop and supposed to uphold the law, not break it.  She still looked longingly at the dress. 

Unfortunately, her delight at the clothes was punctured by the memory that the only reason she was looking at them was because of the thrice-damned photoshoot.  Nikki?  _Various scenarios_?  Yeah.  She could just imagine what _scenarios_ Castle would want.  Page 105, she just bet.  Well, no way.  Montgomery’s orders didn’t cover _that_.  Nope, nope, nope.  She firmly ignored the little curl of warmth in her stomach, which had no business curling at all, and stalked back out.

Castle had gone into his dressing room, riffled along the rack of sharp clothes and cotton shirts in various shades of blue, purple and a deep red which, when held up to the mirror, was surprisingly effective at emphasising his eyes; and had been very satisfied.  He spent a little time daydreaming about various scenarios which he would like to enact – with Beckett and very firmly without the photographer or indeed anyone, or anywhere other than his own bedroom.  Of course, the chances of that happening were nil.  Beckett was irritatingly able to ignore the undoubted spark between them.

It was simply _not fair_.  He _knew_ she was interested.  She teased him and even flirted and _definitely_ got him all wound up – and then she strutted off and left him hopelessly aroused and very frustrated and because he was, despite everything, a _good_ man, all he could do was go home and write.  His private directory was overflowing.  And it wasn’t even that she was deliberately leaving him hanging, because she bantered with _everyone_ – and boy oh boy could Ryan blush.  He ambled back out, to see what was going on.

What was going on, he found, was an – er – _animated_ discussion about the appropriate dress for bullpen and/or crime scene settings.  Andy (dumb man) wanted dresses.  Beckett was currently enlightening his ignorance, and only the absence of a circular saw was preventing her doing so by exposing his brain to the studio lights.

“Of course I don’t wear a skirt to a crime scene.  Totally inappropriate.  Pants or jeans, sure.”

“But what if you came from an evening out?”

There was a pause, into which Castle inserted the mental sentence _Beckett doesn’t have evenings out_.

“I’d change at the precinct.  I keep a set of clothes there.”

Andy made a disappointed face.  Beckett rolled her eyes.

“I guess we’ll just have to do a series of non-work settings, then.”

Castle perked up.

“Like what?” Beckett asked very suspiciously.

“A dinner, a bar, Nikki at home after work.”

“Okay...”

“Let’s get started, then.  This is what you wear for work, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.  We’ll start with the precinct.  Rick, are you ready?”

“Uh?”

“Precinct shots.  Is that what you normally wear?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.  We can switch you around more easily.  You happy to start with that?”

“Sure.”

Andy started to shoot.  Fairly shortly, he sent Beckett off to change into the dark pants and jacket.

“I’m not getting the chemistry between them here,” Andy said.  “Can’t you get a bit closer?  There’s supposed to be a spark.  Lean in.”

“She won’t like it.”

“But it’ll open up some emotions.  Both of you are, um, _null_.  I need something – annoyance, lust, whatever.  Just _something_.  So lean in so we start getting something, or this is gonna be useless.”

Castle thought that if he leant in on Beckett and she took exception – which she would – some parts of him would be useless.  If he were lucky, it would be his nose or ear.  If he were unlucky... he crossed his legs protectively.  On the other hand, there had been that occasion on the Hallowe’en case... and he wasn’t dead yet.  If the boys hadn’t interrupted, in fact....  He could quite cheerfully have consigned them to Hallowe’en Hell.

Beckett came back out dressed in a dark jacket and wide-legged pants, though regrettably she appeared still to have a white shirt underneath.  It would have been _much_ more interesting if she had forgotten the shirt.  That glimpse of bra...mmmmmmm.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Beckett sat down at the desk, gun there beside her – she’d squawked about that, but Andy had insisted – shield shining on the jacket.  Castle, as requested, leaned over her, considerably closer than in the first set of shots.

Exactly as predicted, Beckett’s ire instantly rose, as did the rate of shots.  She flicked round, and Castle found her almost – _almost_ – irresistibly close.

“Give me some room,” she demanded.  Andy kept shooting.  “Move back.”

Andy tipped Castle a _go-with-it_ nod, and he moved back.  “Great,” the photographer said.  “Okay, Detective, let’s move on to Nikki at home after a frustrating day.  You’re right in the zone for that.  We’ll start with a few shots of you stalking out, just dressed like you are, then pick something that you’d wear to chill at home.”

“Oooohhh,” Castle flipped at her.  “We could do Netflix and chill.”

“Shut up, or be shot for real.”  Beckett stalked – it wasn’t quite _stormed_ , but it was certainly close – out again: Andy snapping all the way.

“That’s much better,” he said happily.  His minions changed the set over to include a comfortable couch and arranged screens and props to give the impression of an apartment, while Castle rapidly changed to a white t-shirt and black leather jacket, casually suave and sexy.

Beckett slinked back out in a long, grey, roll neck sweater that covered up every enticing curve but exposed several miles of legs.  Castle gulped.  Andy took one fast glance and started shooting without pausing.  She prowled over to the couch, folded elegantly on to it, and then positively snuggled into the cushions and the sweater, pouting adorably over the roll neck and then pulling it up so that she was peeking out over the rim.

He would never, _ever_ have believed that Beckett could be so _cute_.  Not a Beckett at all: and he wondered if this was a Kate: a kittenish, cute, cuddly Kate.  He wanted to sweep her into his arms and pet her: drop kisses on her head and stroke her hair; wrap her in and never let her go.

And then kiss his way up those amazingly wonderful legs and not stop till he reached the top and she _purred_.

He met her eyes, allowing her to see a little of his scorching thoughts, and a fine line of colour bloomed on her cheekbones as her eyelashes swept down and over her – oh wow.  Over her eyes, suddenly green and flecked with gold, wide-pupiled.

“Okay, so Rick, Rook’s just arrived at her apartment.  Go in.”

“But...”

“What?”

“Um...is this before or after they, um, get together?”

“Before,” Beckett snapped.  Andy blinked.  Castle smirked.  Now he knew Beckett was on edge.

“Whatever,” he said, and walked over to the couch.

“You’re not snuggling up to me,” Beckett growled.

“Aww.  But no, I’m not,” Castle said, sitting right next to her.  “I’m snuggling with that sweater.”  He stroked down her arm. “It’s gorgeous.  Soft and fluffy and pettable.”

“If Rook tried that on Nikki she’d shoot him.”

“How lucky you left your gun in the dressing room, then.  I’m all for realism, but not that much realism.”

Beckett shoved at him.  Castle smirked.  “See, Rook doesn’t like being pushed around.  So he’s not moving.”

“You’re not Rook.  Move.”

“For this purpose, I am Rook.  So no, not moving.”  His smirk widened.  Beckett scowled.  “He likes the sweater.”

“This is dumb.  It’s not even in the book.”

“How do you know?  It hasn’t been released yet.”

“I went to the launch party!”

“Book Two, Beckett.  It’s a series.  And they got together in Book One, so I can snuggle if I want.”

“What the _hell_?  More of them?”

“You _know_ there are.  You were there when I got the call!  Roy told you all about it.”  He pouted.  “And then you twisted my ear practically off which was totally _not nice_.  You’re never nice to me.”

“Why should I be?”

“I solve cases.”

“No, you come up with dumb insane crazy theories that waste my time.”

“Do not.  You love my theorising.  It’s like sex with all our clothes on.”

“If you think that’s anything like sex you’re doing it wrong.”

“Oh?  Wanna show me how to do it right?”

Beckett spluttered and fulminated and didn’t manage a single coherent word.  Castle sat and looked smug, until she stormed off the couch to her dressing room, slamming its flimsy door.

“Change again,” Andy said to him, and off he went to find a dark shirt, but he kept the leather jacket.

In the dressing room Beckett was relieving her fury by swearing viciously at the wall, mostly under her breath.  She dressed in her own clothes, and put the beige trench coat over them.  She wasn’t going to participate in any situation that might give Castle any more ammunition for comments like the last one.

“You can take more shots in work situations,” she said flatly.

“Won’t work, Beckett.”

“Why not?”

“Because whether you like it or not they are together and they do go on dates.  So there have to be a few shots of dates.”

“What the” –

“Montgomery cleared it...” Castle said meaningfully.  He specifically didn’t say that Nikki and Rook were going on dates in Book Two, because if they were, he hadn’t written it yet.  A little inspiration would be helpful.  “You’d better change into something suitable for a date.”

Beckett scowled so blackly a passing thundercloud ran for cover, and then stormed back to her dressing room.

“Living dangerously,” Andy noted idly.

Castle merely grinned.  “She won’t shoot me.”

“You sure about that?  She looks pretty fired up to me.”

“She likes me really.”

In the disbelieving silence that followed that statement of the blindingly _not_ obvious, Beckett stalked back out, high heels clicking menacingly.  Castle should have cowered, but he was too busy retrieving his eyebrows from the ceiling and his jaw and tongue from the floor.  He simply stared.  And stared.  And stared.

It was black.  It was fitted.  And it was absolutely clear that there was no bra under it because it was slipping off one shoulder and all that glorious creamy skin was gleaming and he –

“Get back.”

Oh.  He’d not even noticed that he’d moved.

“Get.  Back.”

He didn’t move.  His eyes roamed from toes to messed up hair.  “Wow.  Wow.  This is a million times better than that blue dress.”

Her eyes flashed.  “Like it, do you?” she purred, and the fire in her eyes wasn’t only anger. 

“So much.”  He took another step forward.

“Stop.”

“Nikki and Rook are going on a date.  People don’t walk four feet apart on a date – or you’re dating the wrong people.”

“They’ve had a fight.  They’re not going on a date.”

“Had a fight, hm?  Then they’re going to have hot make up sex.  It’s what they do.”

“It is not!”

“My characters.  I know them inside out.”

“You based them on us and I don’t have hot make up sex with you when we fight.”

“You could do.  It would be a lot more fun than coffee.”  He smirked.  “You should try it.  You might even like it.”

“Not likely.”

“How do you know?” he taunted.  “You’ve never tried it.”

“And I’m not going to.”

The expression on Castle’s face simply screamed _liar!_   He moved the final two steps to be next to Beckett, smiled sweetly, and waited.  In the background, Andy kept shooting and tried not to laugh as Beckett took a stride, Castle followed her, and the net effect was a delicate waltz around the studio.

“Stop being so silly,” he complained.

“You’re the one being dumb here.  I didn’t want to do this in the first place and I’m only doing it because I was ordered.  Well, I can’t be ordered to date someone so you can all just shove that idea up your dumb asses.  You” – she flashed at Andy, who cowered – “said the precinct and Nikki at home.  That’s all you’re getting.”

“And yet,” Castle said sweetly, “you’re in a dress suitable for a date.”

Beckett’s scowl dimmed the Klieg lights.

“Care to explain why you put it on at all?” he added.  Growl joined scowl.  “You couldn’t possibly have wanted to wind me up, could you?” he asked innocently.  “That would be mean.”

“Why would I bother winding _you_ up?”

Ow.  That had stabbed.  He hadn’t done anything to deserve that.

“Anyway.  Nikki would change at home before a date.  So you can have shots of Nikki going out – without Rook – or no shots at all.  I’m not going to look like eye candy so the whole world can think I’m a bimbo who’d rather be on Page Six than doing my job.  Take it or leave it.”

She turned on her spiked heel, aiming towards her door.  Castle grabbed her arm.

On reflection, that was where it all started to get messy.


	2. Chapter 2

Beckett spun back, but tangled her feet around Castle and fell.  Since he wasn’t expecting that, and was still hanging on to her, he fell too, which might have been okay if only he hadn’t been falling on top of her.  He twisted, which only meant that she landed on top of him.  Which might _still_ have been okay, if...

If he hadn’t then automatically wrapped his arms around her like he’d dreamed about for months and months and pulled her head to his and kissed her.  And if she hadn’t kissed him back, much harder.

And if Andy the _idiot_ photographer hadn’t whistled.  Because at _that_ point, Beckett realised what was happening and stopped hard.  Almost as hard as he was.  And then she scrambled off him, displaying an inordinate amount of exceedingly gorgeous legs and a flash of seriously hot panties, and ran for it.  He was barely off the floor – and he _hurt_ : his bruises were already forming – when she dashed through the studio in her own clothes, and out.

Well, that was one great big fucking disaster.

“I think the shoot’s done for today,” Andy said.

“You don’t say.”

“Where d’you want the clothes sent?”

“Huh?”

“Your PR guys provided them.  Paid for.”  Andy snickered.  “Guess that was in case one of you ripped them.”  Castle made a very unpleasant noise.  “Where d’you want them to go?” Andy said quickly.

Castle thought.  “Mine can go back to Paula.  Tell her to donate them.  Except that leather jacket.  I’ll take it now.  Beckett’s...um...look, can you get them sent to this address?”  He scribbled.  He knew exactly where they ought to go, especially that rollneck sweater.

And then he decided that she couldn’t actually shoot him, and went after her.  About two steps into hurrying after her, he discovered that he couldn’t hurry, because he hurt too much to move quickly.  He creaked down the stairs and out of the studio, and whistled down a cab, sitting down with extreme caution.  The driver did not exercise caution, extreme or otherwise, and by the time Beckett’s block had been reached, Castle was regretting every last pothole.  Yes, he was fit, exercised regularly, and was in excellent health – but crashing down on a hard floor with Beckett’s weight (which wasn’t much, considering her height) on top of him was _sore_.

Cab paid, he ached and groaned his way into Beckett’s block, thanked God for an elevator, and arrived at Beckett’s door still – just about – able to move.  He knocked.

It took longer than he would have liked for the door to open.  On the other hand, she had opened the door, which was an improvement on – exceedingly likely – _not_ opening it.

“Yes?”  It wasn’t welcoming.

“Let me come in,” Castle said pathetically.  “I hurt all over from falling on that floor and I really wanna sit down.”

She scowled.  “You tripped me up.”

“C’mon.  Please?”

“Whatever.”

Castle sidled in, still creaking, and cautiously sat down, wincing with every bend of every joint.

“Try Icy Hot.”

“Does it come in bath-filling sizes?”

Beckett cracked a smile.  “I’ll lend you mine.  Two capfuls in a bath will do.”

“That and half a glass of neat Scotch.”

“Yeah, but tomorrow you’ll have a hangover to add to the aches.”

“I’d still lose them now.”

“Well, I don’t have any Scotch, so you’ll have to pass on that.”

“Are you offering me a bath?”

“No,” Beckett said immediately. 

“Oh.”  He managed a cheerful leer.  Moving his mouth didn’t hurt, unlike everything else.  “I’d have thought you might want one.  We could have shared the Icy Hot.  And the bath.”

“No.”

Clearly he wasn’t forgiven just yet, though he also hadn’t been shot or otherwise despatched to the afterlife – if there were no bruises in the afterlife, it might have been worth it.

“Coffee?” she added, as if manners had outweighed desire.

“Please.”

Shortly, there was efficient movement in the kitchen and the sound of a kettle boiling.  Castle’s bleary brain informed him that coffee would help.  His bleary eyes informed him that it had arrived in front of him, and then, belatedly, that Beckett had changed into sloppy sweats since the studio shoot.

“I liked the grey sweater better,” he blurted out.  The doggerel words didn’t improve anything.

“I don’t want to talk about the photoshoot _ever_.  It didn’t happen.”

“We’ll need to finish it.”

“No.”

“Yes.  If Andy doesn’t have enough shots then we’ll need to go back.  Anyway, you get the clothes whatever.”

“Huh?”

“Clothes.  They’re yours.”

“You what now?  They’re the shoot’s clothes, not mine.”

“Er...not exactly.  Black Pawn paid for them” –

“You mean you did.”

“Well,” Castle squirmed: Beckett’s grasp of economics was clearly as sound as her grasp of evidence and procedure, “ _indirectly_ , I guess, but I certainly didn’t buy them.”

“It’s your PR budget, so you paid.”

“So?”

“So not mine.  Yours.”

“They won’t fit me.”

Another smile sneaked on to Beckett’s face without her permission, and was ruthlessly removed.  “I’m not taking clothes from you.”

“They won’t suit Alexis, and Mother’s never knowingly worn anything that doesn’t burn out my retinas.  They really did suit you...” he trailed off enticingly.

Beckett suddenly remembered the white dress and the snuggly grey sweater.  But...she didn’t want to be under any obligation to Castle at all.

“I’ll pay for them,” she said.  She knew she couldn’t afford all of them.  He might be able to drop close to $3000 on clothes without thinking, but she couldn’t.

“What?  No!”

“Yes.  Or you take them to the nearest thrift shop.”

Castle didn’t like that suggestion one little bit.  He thought fast.  “Okay.  You can pay for them by finishing the photoshoot.”

“No!”

“You’ll have to anyway.  Montgomery will insist.”

“Only because you’ll tattle.  I never wanted to do it.”

“But you liked the clothes,” Castle insinuated.

“Not the point.”

“You did.  You snuggled into that sweater like it was your first teddy bear.”  He just managed not to say _and it was so cute I could have kissed you right then_ , especially since he _had_ kissed her, a few minutes later.  And she’d liked it... if he wasn’t so bruised he’d try it again now, but if he bent forward he might never be able to straighten his back ever again.  He tried for a shuffle towards her, which simultaneously achieved around three inches’ movement and a flash of pain.

“What’s wrong?”

“When I fell, I think I hurt my back.”

“Really?  What are you doing here if you’ve hurt yourself that badly?”  _Idiot_ was clearly implied.  “Why aren’t you seeing a doctor?”

He gazed pathetically at her.  “It didn’t hurt so much when I...er...um.”

“Came hotfooting over here to annoy me some more.”

“Yes...er... no!”

“Oh?”  The fearsome sight of the raised Beckett eyebrow didn’t soothe Castle’s ailments at all.

“I didn’t come to annoy you.”

“So what did you think you were coming for?”

Castle’s face turned blank.  “You were upset,” he eventually said.  “So...um...I came to make sure you were okay.”

“Having upset me in the first place?  How _exactly_ was that supposed to work?”

“You didn’t seem too upset when you were lying on top of me kissing me!” Castle growled, stung by her patent disbelief.

“You kissed me!”

“Yeah, and don’t tell me you didn’t like it.  You kissed me back and if it hadn’t been for that idiot photographer whistling you’d still be kissing me now.”

“I would not!”

“Would so.”

“Would _not_.  Making out in public is tasteless.”

“So you’d have done it in private?”

“What?”

“You said it was tasteless in public.  So obviously you don’t think it would be tasteless in private.”

Her mouth opened and shut without words emerging.

“So we should do it again.”

“What?”

Castle lost his limited patience.  “Stop deflecting.  You were kissing me just as much as I was kissing you till you spooked.  You liked it.”

“Not the point.”

“It is _so_ the point.  Why’d you keep pretending there’s nothing there when there _obviously_ is?”

“Because I don’t want to be part of your celebrity lifestyle!  You drag me into it every chance you get.  Dumb fundraisers full of barracuda-billionaire seekers, photoshoots – this is the second one, let me remind you, after that one in the precinct: book launch parties, readings” –

“You didn’t have to show up at that reading, that was all your own idea!”

“The rest weren’t.  You even had that damn reporter at the precinct to go with the photoshoot and I don’t want any of it.”  She hunched defensively into her corner: mug wrapped in her hands like a gun.

“That’s _it_?  That’s your excuse?”

“If I wanted to be in the public eye I’d have stayed in modelling” – she broke off several words too late.

“I knew you were a model.”  Castle smiled slowly.  “Well, well, well.  That explains a lot about the photoshoot.”

“Oh, so _now_ you’re interested?” 

It stung.  “I thought it was pretty clear I was _interested_ from moment one,” Castle snapped.

“You’d flirt with anything: living, dead or in between.”

“And you wouldn’t?  What was that _you have no idea_ if it wasn’t you flirting?”

“I don’t flirt with every passing guy.”

“Just with me?  Isn’t that interesting?  You flirt with me,” he said, lazily, “but not with anyone else.  What was it you said... oh yes.  _I’m a one-and-done sort of a girl_.  Tell me, Detective, am I your _one_?”

“You arrogant jackass!”

“That’s not a denial.”

Beckett retreated into her corner with the hostile demeanour of a trapped wolf.  Castle, with care, managed a slide closer.

“You can’t deny it.  If you could, you would have – and you’d never have kissed me back.”  Another slide.  It wasn’t as painful this time.  She was running out of room.  “Would you?”  He stopped.  Pinning her into the corner wasn’t going to be a good move: she could and would kill him with her bare hands.

So the obvious solution was to test the water while sure her hands were occupied.  He stretched his out, and caught hers.  His thumbs rubbed over her wrists.  She stared at him.

“What are you _doing_?”

“Taking the initiative,” Castle said smoothly.  “You kissed me back, so now I’m holding your hands.  It’s a bit pre-teen, but you spook at a batted eyelash so I’m guessing you want me to take it slowly.” 

Beckett stared even more.  “You’re crazy.  You’re absolutely insane.  You’re on a different planet” –

“Yeah, the one where you kissed me” –

“Will you _shut up_ about me kissing you?”

“So you admit it?”

Beckett snapped her hands out of his and, childishly, sat on them.  “No.  This never happened.  Today was just a bad dream.”

“Okay, then.”  Castle stood up, slowly, and tried an exploratory stretch. It wasn’t _quite_ sore any more.

“Huh?”

“I’m going.  I’ll let you know when the next photoshoot is.”  He walked, still a little tentative, to the door.  “Night.”  He’d never walked out on her before: always stayed around…  Maybe it was time to try the other option.  Mentally, his fingers were firmly crossed.  Physically, they were on the handle, pressing it down, beginning to open the door –

“Don’t you want to drink your coffee?” she asked. 

She sounded pleasingly uncertain.  Calling her bluff – sort of – was actually working.  Castle shrugged, still at the door, though he’d released the handle.  “You don’t want my company, so I’m taking the hint.” 

“I didn’t say that.”

“It was pretty clear.”  He feigned indifference.

“Don’t be ridiculous.  I like your company.  I just don’t like photoshoots.”  She glanced at him, a hint of worry on her face.  “Your coffee’s here.”

“I’ll get it to go on the way home.”

“Don’t be silly,” she snipped.

“You can drink it.” 

She half stood, then sat back again.  “I don’t like the way you take your coffee.”

“You drank the precinct sludge.  You’d drink motor oil if it said coffee on the cup.”  He’d turned around, and now turned back to the door.  “Anyway, I’m going.”

“Don’t go.”

Celebratory fireworks went off in his head.  Obviously, no-one had ever walked away from Beckett before, which was hardly surprising.  She held world records for playing hard to get – she _was_ hard to get.  But she didn’t like the tables being turned and she didn’t like being even temporarily rejected and _oh yes_ the balance of power had just shifted to a lot nearer equality.  As long as she never got a look inside his head, that was, because the moment she found out how totally into her he was he’d never have a hope.

“Now you want me to stay?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

And there was the Beckett barrier of snap, snip, and snark.

“Still doesn’t sound much like it.  You’re cross about the photoshoot and you wanna write today off as if it never happened ‘cause you’re embarrassed.  Well, that’s fine, but I’m not embarrassed and I’m not writing it off like it never happened.”

He opened the door again.

It slammed shut with his back against it as Beckett’s hand slammed past his ear. 

“Holding someone against their will is a crime,” he pointed out primly.  At least, that was what his brain said.  His body had other ideas.  It locked its arms around Beckett and kept her right there where she’d landed hard on his lips.  One hand knotted in her hair.  The other slid down to her ass and pressed her in, right up close and as personal as could be managed with their clothes on.

Walk out on her, would he?  Reject coffee and not even respond to being asked to stay?  No way.  She’d gone through three hours of _fucking photoshoot_ for his dumb books and _he_ wouldn’t even have coffee with her.  No.  Fucking.  Way.  She shoved the door shut and then she didn’t know how or what or why but they were kissing again and she was …he was…  He was firm and sure and confident and all around her and that hadn’t been the plan at all because she was going to _not kiss him_ and even if she had it would be a quick _see what you’ll be missing_ then shove him out the door because if he didn’t want to stay then she wasn’t going to keep him.

Him turning the tables was absolutely not the plan at all.  She should stop kissing him.   She should stop letting him press her against him and stop letting him have a hand in her hair and stop letting him pull her leg up around his waist so that she was open to him and just simply _stop_ –

But she couldn’t stop.  Wouldn’t stop.  And there was no dumbass whistling photographer to disturb them and make her realise what she was doing. 

And then his hand slid under her sweats and on to the soft skin of her back where it _scorched_ and she stopped thinking about anything at all except Castle and his broad span covering her back and his mouth sliding away from hers which was _not allowed oh my God do that again_ as he nibbled at her neck to make her wriggle and roll against him and _oh oh oh_ he kissed her again and he was just so good with his tongue that she didn’t even notice her sweatshirt disappearing until it was gone.  How he’d managed that she had no idea, since she was so tightly plastered against him that she’d have sworn she could count the hairs on his chest by touch.

On balance, of which she had nearly none thanks to Castle’s expert kissing and extremely experienced touch – he hadn’t got close to an officially erogenous zone but right now her whole body was one continuous erogenous zone – she didn’t care how the hell he’d done it as long as she got to do the same.

She insinuated slim fingers between them, tracing over his collarbones, down the length of his sternum, from side to side, scraping the cotton over his chest and nipples, still kissing him, or being kissed, as she opened the buttons.

Through his fog of sheer lust and rampant desire, Castle dimly realised that his shirt was open and there was the delicate slither of silk over curves against his bare skin.  His hands moved from her hair downwards and worked their way around the band of the bra, finding a little lace, searching out the neat mounds.  He loosened his grip so that he could see…

Holy shit.  _That_ would have been a photoshoot and a half.  Even that little black dress hadn’t been like this.  It was black.  Ebony, against the ivory of her creamy skin.  He wanted to lick over every inch of cream.  It was translucent, though: silk chiffon: too ephemeral to confine or restrain her – but it wasn’t necessary, because those were the most perfectly pert breasts he’d ever seen: small, sure, but neat, firm – and exactly sized to fit his hand.  _Only_ his hand.  Between one breath and the next he’d drowned without a struggle.

Unbidden, his hands released her narrow belt, the button of her pants, the zipper: pushed down to reveal more...

Oh God.  Oh fuck.  He was on the verge of explosion and he was hardly touching her now, just his hands lightly on her hips and a beginning-to-be-confused expression on her face and he couldn’t have that: he couldn’t let her ever think that he was reluctant or stopping or anything but worshipping.  He leant forward, fighting for control, and planted a very deliberate kiss right in the centre of her cleavage.  She sighed, but it wasn’t sad; took a sharp breath, but it wasn’t shocked; moved, but it wasn’t away.

His eyes told her everything she needed to know: flaring wide in stunned appreciation, dilating to swallow up the bright blue with black, blown pupils.  And then he leant forward and kissed the centre of her cleavage just above the vee of the bra and that wasn’t only lust: wasn’t only hot flirtation and raw desire.  Between one breath and the next she’d drowned without regrets.

She reached for his hands, met them, tried to press him back against the door, found herself forestalled by greater strength and gathered in once more.

“Slow down,” he murmured.  “No hurry now.  You’re gorgeous.”  His words slithered over her skin, coating her, seeping in and softening every sensitised nerve so that she curved into him and curled close and all her taut tension dissolved into his hands and the delicacy of his seeking, questing mouth moving oh-so-slowly across her breast, ever closer to the peaks of her nipples through the light covering.

“Ohhhhh,” she breathed, and felt the smile against her skin; the slight flex in his hands where he balanced her as her head dropped back and her hips tilted forward into his: widening around him where he rolled into her; hands at his shoulders.

“Beautiful.”  He undid his own pants, one handed, kicked out of them, stopped playing with those wonderful breasts and lifted her.  “Bed.”  Beds were soft, comfortable, and carried no risk of falling over.  He wanted to savour her.  Touch and taste and take it slow and tease and tantalise: take them to the stars.


	3. Chapter 3

“’kay,” came back to his ears, her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands around his neck: she leaned in and nibbled naughtily at his earlobe so he gasped and nearly dropped her.  “Ow!” she emitted.  “Loosen up.”

“Don’t _do_ that, then.  Or would you rather I dropped you?”

She wriggled, which was highly arousing and did nothing to improve Castle’s balance or focus.

“Finding it hard?” she husked.  “’Cause I’m finding it very hard.”

He almost ran the last few steps into the bedroom, ignoring the creaking of the bruises from earlier, and fell over her on to the bed.

“Let’s play,” he purred dangerously, taking her hands in his and planting them by her ears.  She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to comment, but he dived straight back in, most of his weight on his elbows but his hips over hers, his legs between hers: the hard mass pushing against soft damp folds under translucent black silk chiffon and a tiny edge of lace.  She squirmed, giving him small noises of satisfaction and desire which he caught and swallowed into the deep, hard kiss, releasing her hands and cupping her face, stroking thumbs gently but intently along the hard edge of her jaw, over the sharp cut of her cheekbones, back to cradle her cheeks again.  He lifted from the kiss, and traced the line of her lips, full and a little swollen, slightly parted and wholly inviting.  She nipped her own lip, and soothed it with the tip of her tongue, wetly pink and provocative.

Castle’s weight over her felt so damn good: wide in all the right places: full, thick and hard exactly where he should be; covering and capturing her perfectly.  She reached down to stroke over his ribs, his back, the narrowing of his torso to his hips, and reached his well-shaped ass, slipping mischievous fingers into the band of his boxers and taking them with her.  Playing should be mutual.

He growled deep in his chest, and Beckett flipped them over while he was still surprised enough not to resist, ending straddling him and capturing his hands to pin them by his ears as he had held her.  He smiled lazily up, and allowed her to keep him there, straddled over him, proudly on display and completely unashamed of her body.  She had to know the effect she had on him: he was barely containing his need to flip her back and simply surge into her.  Her readiness was obvious as she slid over him.

“Is this you showing me how to do sex properly?” he murmured.  “’Cause if it is, teach me, Beckett.  Teach me good.”  _And never, ever stop._

His eyes ran up and down her, fixing her lingerie-clad self in his memory (but he would see it again, for real: no need for photos or photoshoots to preserve this view), and then easily broke her hold and reached up to palm and play; to dance around her ribs to find and open the hooks that held the flimsy fabric together and let it fall away, and to watch her sensuously curve into his broad hands and then make the arch that brought her to his mouth. 

He didn’t refuse the offered feast: in fact, he fell on it like a starving man. He’d never need anything more than his own semi-photographic memory to be able to see this every time he wanted to: Beckett above him, naked except for her tiny, translucent briefs: honed and lithe and utterly beautiful – and all his.

“I don’t think you need much teaching…ohhhhhhh.”

“Come here,” he grated, and rolled them to be above her: returned to his lipping and laving and lavishing attention on her breasts, a tiny, careful nip and soothe, and then a languorous, lascivious, long lick downward, circling her navel: a wriggle to the side, and then he eased her panties slowly down the length of her legs, spread them, resisted temptation because he couldn’t wait any longer to be _inside_ her and prowled all the way back up her body to reach her mouth again.

“Protection?” he belatedly wondered.

“Right here.”

She reached down to sheath him with one slim, elegant hand: curved her fingers once he was covered and added a hint of a scratch.  It zinged through his whole body and his hips bucked: she gripped and slid up and down: once, twice, and the third time she guided him home.  Though it nearly killed him, he went slow: he wasn’t small and, even as excited as she was, she was very tight around him.  Fully within her, he met her lips, she opened to him.

“You feel amazing,” he breathed, and moved very slightly: she moaned as he hit the spot, filling her full, and she mewed as he withdrew a little, came forward again.

“Shut up and kiss me,” she gasped, and tugged his head down on to her mouth, then turned away.  “This is no time for talking.”

“You’re talking,” Castle managed.  “But I think I know how to stop that.”  He dipped, took her mouth possessively, and began to move: she met and matched his rhythm and sure enough she wasn’t talking.  His wickedly experienced fingers didn’t need taught to find the knot of sensitive nerves between them; her hands dug into his back and her legs twined tightly around his waist so that he could drive deeper, harder as she rose to meet him and then there was nothing but his motion and her magnificence and then he saw the stars with her.

When he could think again, he found Beckett tucked into him with his arm over her in a very _keep-her-right-here_ fashion, her insanely long legs elegantly disposed over the coverlet.  She was far too slim to be a Rubens nude: maybe Ingres, or Velasquez?  In his currently sex-hazed eyes, she was more beautiful than any of them.  She made a sleepy little noise, adorably cute and totally not like she was in the bullpen, and curled her hand over his where it lay over her lowest rib.  Even so, she was too far away.  Unfortunately, before he could cuddle, he had to tidy up a little.

He was swift, but even so she’d hidden under the covers before he returned.  That was displeasing.  He followed her.

“Wanna cuddle,” he muttered, his arm around her already.

“Am cuddling,” Beckett grumbled.

“Cuddle closer.”  He followed up by wriggling into her until he couldn’t physically be any closer without wriggling under her skin.  “That’s better.”  His mind flittered.  “I wanted to snuggle you in when you had that sweater on.”

“It’s _my_ sweater.  You can’t pet it.”

“Can so.  Anyway, you said you didn’t want the clothes.”

“Then you forced them on me anyway.  So now it’s _my_ sweater.”

“I could take them to the thrift shop like you wanted.”

“No!” she yelped.

“No?” Castle purred.  “So you want them?  I’m good, but I didn’t know I was _that_ good.”

Beckett said nothing, which was rather surprising, since Castle had been expecting her to produce a brain-burning answer.

“Oooohhhh,” he said smugly.  “I _was_ that good.”

“Conceited ass.”

“That’s not disagreement.”  His fingers stretched a little, and found the undercurve of her breast, petted gently.  “You were definitely that good.  Wanna see if we can be that good together again?”

“Mmmm,” she emitted.  She approved of that idea, but when she tried to turn over to start the game again, he _tutted_ at her. 

“Uh-uh.  It’s my turn to start.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you were the one who shut me in and wouldn’t let me leave and then kissed me so I hadn’t a chance to escape,” he said primly, “so it’s my turn to get my own way.”

Beckett stared up at his wolfish smile.  “You what now?”

“My turn,” he said sweetly.  “Just lie back and enjoy it.”  He licked his lips lasciviously.  “I’m pretty sure you won’t be complaining in a moment.”

Beckett humphed, lay flat with her feet together and her arms by her sides, and closed her eyes firmly.  Castle debated whether to tell her that the pouting lip was unutterably cute, and decided that dying wasn’t worth it.  “Very funny,” he smirked instead.  She humphed again.  “You’re just gonna lie there and pretend to think of Manhattan?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes popped open.  “You’re not going to try to talk me out of it?”

“I won’t need to.”

He leaned down, slowly, the predatory expression on his face entirely wasted when she closed her eyes again, and whiffled gently behind her ear, where exploring the nerves had already produced the most interesting results.  Even without touching her, she wriggled, though, from the twist of her mouth, she hadn’t meant or indeed wanted to.

So, of course, he did it again.  And then he added a zephyr-touch of lips, and then a more definite kiss, and then a teasing nibble, soft enough not to leave a mark (he _really_ didn’t want to die today).  She wriggled some more; her cheeks bore a thin wash of colour; she bit and soothed at her lip which was unbearably sexy, and he’d never manage ever again to keep a blank face in public when she did it outside a bedroom; and her breathing had speeded up.

“Manhattan?” he queried suavely.

“Yep.  Leaves falling in Central Park.”

“Okay.”

He licked straight down that wonderfully sensitive nerve to her clavicles, stopped there for just long enough for her to breathe out and pretend to be unaffected, and then ignored (oh, but it cost him dear) her pretty pink-tipped breasts, a little reddened with stubble burn – and proceeded straight downward to her navel.  Now that was worth playing with, for a little while. Certainly for long enough to find that it – she – was a little ticklish there, and to make her squeak and squirm (oh God, Beckett, keep squirming against him like that, _please_ ).

Eventually, and consequent upon some severe damage to his ears, he stopped amusing himself with Beckett’s reactions to being tickled, and slid down to his goal.  She’d long since stopped gluing her legs together, and she wasn’t exactly quiet any longer, and he was pretty certain that Manhattan, or any area which wasn’t the few square inches he was aiming towards, wasn’t in her thoughts.  If she had any thoughts, which he doubted, he was going to eliminate them.  First, a little teasing…

“You know what I’m going to do next,” he purred, and before she could answer, blew across her.  “Don’t you like it?”  He blew again.  She half-whimpered.  “You do.”  And a tiny flick. “I do too.”  Flick.  “You taste so good.”  Flick-lick-flick, and she moaned.  He slid his thumbs over her thighs, inward, sensing the taut tension in lean, lithe muscle; her anticipation obvious and growing, flowing.  Flick-lick-suck, and _Castle_ , she jerked out, and her hips shuddered and bucked. 

He carried on, winding her up without stopping, flick-lick, in-out-round, his mouth evil, experienced and wholly erotic: his hands fully occupied in holding her wide for him; he was fully aroused again, already, just from her taste and smell and the touch of his hands on smooth skin over her writhing body.  He didn’t need sight, though she was a gorgeous sight; he wouldn’t need photographs, even in his capacious memory.  The moment was all about his other senses, and on the thought he heard her crying out _Castle, Castle!_ and she shattered against his mouth and fell, lax and sated.

He slithered back up, and kissed her, tenderly, so she tasted her desire and his together.   “No Manhattan now.”

“No…”

“Just us.”

“Mhm.”  She shivered, and tried to pull a cover over herself.  Castle gathered her in, and kissed her again.  She liked that.  Kisses and cuddles were good.  Even if photoshoots were not good, the aftermath was pretty good.  She nestled closer, and luxuriated in being enclosed in strong arms and a broad chest.  He smelled nice: a hint of cologne, and a whole lot of male.  She tucked her head on to his shoulder, locked an arm around his chest and a leg over his, and made sure he couldn’t escape.  He rumbled happily, deep in his chest, and played with a tendril of her hair.

Beckett suddenly realised that she felt _safe_.  Not safe from innuendo, or indeed from thrice-damned photoshoots, or from being presented with far too many expensive clothes from said photoshoot, but safe within the arms of someone who – she concluded from the quality of his embrace – cared about her.  It felt nice.  She closed her eyes.

Her pillow was making noises.  It shouldn’t do that.  Pillows didn’t have heartbeats, and they certainly shouldn’t snuffle. Maybe it was some sort of trick pillow that Castle had switched out – Castle – Castle!  Castle was in her bed.  Sleeping.  And naked.  As was she.  Memory returned to her.  Hmm. Castle had been deeply unselfish, and she’d rolled over (well, into him) and promptly gone to sleep.  Not very fair. 

She’d better make it up to him.  She wobbled his shoulder, which produced only a somnolent, wordless grumbling sound and no wakening at all.  She wobbled a bit harder, which also didn’t work.  She considered, then she smiled.  She really didn’t think he’d object.

Nope, that wasn’t objection.  Surprise, certainly, but followed by considerable delight, expressed in considerable detail and profanity.  So nice for her work to be appreciated.  Well, not _work_ exactly.  More, um, _pleasure_.  For both of them.  She lavished oral attention upon his, hmm, _substantial_ assets, and enjoyed every groan, jerk, and forced out profanity, until he lost words altogether and then all control.

It took a while for him to be able to speak, Beckett discovered.  No speech was an interesting – and welcome – change, though it didn’t mean no action.  She was presently caged in Castle’s arms with no reasonable prospect of escape without causing substantial damage to those arms.  She’d do that, if she’d wanted to free herself in the astonishingly unlikely circumstances that Castle wouldn’t let go the instant she asked him, but it would be a terrible shame to spoil those lovely strong arms.  How lucky that it would never happen, no matter how many nights they spent together...

What?  Many?  Uh…that was _one_ night.  _Preceded by months and months of flirting and innuendo_ , said a sensible (and unwelcome) part of her brain.  _So it’s not surprising you’re thinking about doing it again.  And again.  And some more._  

She cuddled in (not that there was much choice) and contemplated that thought, not without some panic.  Then she metaphorically slapped herself upside the head, and told herself not to worry, but to take it one day at a time.

* * *

The following day passed off relatively peacefully: Castle – having been drilled by a laser-intensity glare the first moment he made a comment – deciding to save his salacious statements for later. 

Peace was abruptly cancelled when Beckett’s evening was interrupted by the doorbell.  Since Castle was attending a school function, it couldn’t be him.  (And she wasn’t at all disappointed by that.  No, sirree.  Merely a little…um…pensive.  Yeah.  Pensive.  Which didn’t mean she was mooning over him, either.  There would be no mooning over anyone.)

When she opened the door she was greeted by a mobile clothes rack, which was unceremoniously shoved into her apartment by a bored, uncivil delivery driver who demanded a signature and left before Beckett could take a breath and berate him for his rudeness.  She shut the door forcefully behind him, which didn’t relieve her frustration, and examined the rail.

It had all the clothes from the photoshoot.  The warm coats, the smart pantsuit, the little black dress, the white dress which she had so adored, and which looked even better than she remembered – and the lovely snuggly sweater.  She watched them carefully, in case, like leprechaun gold, they might disappear.

They didn’t.  They were still there.  She went to make herself coffee, and when she turned back, they were still there.

She rolled the rack into her bedroom and her capacious closets, and unloaded the lovely new clothes into her wardrobe, leaving the sweater out.  It was so much nicer than her ratty, but soft and comfortable, sweats.  She stroked the white dress.  Light, filmy, feminine…all the things she usually wasn’t.  Well, sometimes she _wanted_ to be light, flirty, and feminine, and the dress was just perfect for conveying that impression.

Right then, however, she wanted to be snuggly, and the sweater was the epitome of snugglement and cosiness.  She stripped off her sweats, and buried herself in the soft grey wool, leaving the roll neck high.  She nestled back into her couch with a good book and her coffee and was _almost_ completely contented.  The sweater cuddled round her as if it had been designed with her in mind, but it wasn’t quite as good as – admit it – being cuddled by Castle.  She drank her coffee, read her book – and every two minutes dragged her mind away from cuddles.  Et cetera.  _Definitely_ et cetera.

It wasn’t even that sort of a book.  It was a perfectly respectable crime novel.  So it was quite ridiculous that, snuggled up in her gorgeous sweater, she was restless and, well, not exactly _frustrated_ because she could perfectly well take care of herself if she were (which she wasn’t) but, um…

Oh, the hell with it.  She was missing Castle.  Already.  One taste and she’d become addicted.  Despite the photoshoot, about which she was still irritated.  She surrounded herself with the irritated memory, and concentrated hard on her book.  It was a good book.  She was enjoying it.  She’d nearly managed to convince herself of that, too.

She tapped out a text.  Her brain had nothing whatsoever to do with that action: it was entirely instinctive.

Almost an hour later, Castle’s distinctive method of ringing the doorbell echoed through her apartment and she sprang up to answer the door.  She was quite ridiculously delighted that he’d arrived, which was entirely inappropriate for a grown woman who didn’t need a partner to validate her self-worth.  Her career, shield and gun were enough for that.  Still, curls of heat gathered in her stomach and her eyes lit up.

Castle’s eyes also lit up when he saw her.

“Sweater,” he gurgled.  “You’re wearing the sweater.”  His brain had nothing to do with stepping forward and wrapping her into his arms.  Neither brain had anything to do with the next while, though the sweater had to watch, forlornly, from the floor of the bedroom.

* * *

A week later, Castle bounced into the precinct, bubbling over with enthusiasm.

“Beckett, Beckett!  I’ve managed to rearrange the rest of the photoshoot.  I’ve cleared it with Montgomery and it’s tonight.”

“What the hell?  No.  No photoshoots.  None.”

“But you promised.”

She had.

“But the clothes are all at home.”

They were.

“I don’t want to do any photoshoots.”

She grumbled all the way to the studio, and when they were done – with a whole different wardrobe – grumbled all the way home again.

“Promise you’ll never make me do any more photos.”

“No more photoshoots.”

* * *

Two years later, Castle looked over the restaurant table at Beckett.  “You know you didn’t want to do any more photoshoots?”

“Yes?” she said suspiciously.

“Well, um, I think you might want to change your mind.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh,” he said happily, “I think you will.”

He pulled out a small black velvet box.  “Kate Beckett, will you marry me?”

**_Fin._ **


End file.
